


in gold ink

by phyripo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, No Dialogue, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phyripo/pseuds/phyripo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Belarus wonders what Monaco is doing with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in gold ink

**Author's Note:**

> [looks at Belarus/Monaco tag] Ah yes I'm the only person who ships this.
> 
> This was for the rarepair week on tumblr, and... That's all.

Sometimes, Belarus wonders what Monaco is doing with her.

Monaco, with her refined tastes, her quiet politeness, her friendly nature. She is bright in a way Belarus never achieved, invites people to talk to her and seems content to listen. Radiant, she thinks is the right word. Quietly radiant, like sunshine.

Belarus is none of that. She doesn’t think so. People don’t implicitly trust her, don’t want to get to know her. She doesn’t make it easy for anyone, so maybe it’s her own fault.

But Monaco made the effort. Wrenched herself past Belarus’s defenses with small, secret smiles and tiny notes in gold ink passed during lunch breaks, asking about her day, saying that she liked her hair this morning. It took a while before Belarus started replying, because she was still distrustful during those days, and why would Monaco want anything to do with her?

Finally, she replied to one of the notes, asking only _why_. When Monaco unfolded it across the table, she met Belarus’s eye and smiled one of those small smiles, pulling out a fountain pen and writing something on the back. The note that Belarus found just said _I like interesting people_. For some reason, it was enough to start replying.

When, not long after that, it became commonplace to have a mobile phone, Belarus found a note in her pocket with a number written on it in elegant gold hand, and she programmed it into her phone, but didn’t call or send a message. The two of them had never talked, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to break the aura of mystery her mind had conjured around Monaco, building this tiny woman up into a steady presence lined in gold in more ways than one.

She wrote a note of her own, dark blue ink as usual, to share her own phone number, but didn’t receive any messages either, until her birthday one year. _Happy birthday_ , signed _Love, Monaco_. Belarus mulled over the _Love_ for a while, but figured it was just a Romance thing. She actually rather liked it.

The notes became longer over the years, but the texts remained short. It just wasn’t the same without the gold ink, Belarus thought.

They wrote about trivial things, things that nations usually aren’t concerned with. Things like the weather, and flowers and ballet and people they met. Belarus learned stupid facts about Monaco, like her favorite color (lavender), and which instruments she played (piano and violin), and that she liked to play pranks on France and she was trying to learn Russian, just because she wanted to. It was surprisingly easy to share things in return, just as inane but part of her, and she didn’t – still doesn’t – share these things easily.

 _Love, Monaco_ became _Love, Mona_ became just _Love_ , and Belarus still isn’t sure how that happened, but she found herself signing _Belarus_ , then _Bela_ , then a single _x_. She wrote to Monaco about her failed date with Lithuania, and Monaco replied with an account of beating Seborga in poker, and did she play, by any chance? When Belarus wrote that she didn’t, she found notes containing diagrams of poker tables drawn in gold ink, and eventually an invitation for a match at Monaco’s house.

That time, Belarus could swear she saw Monaco’s perfectly manicured fingers tremble when she unfolded the reply, as if she was nervous. She was often unreadable, as Belarus had been told she was too.

Belarus and Monaco talked in private for the first time on a summer night in Monaco’s apartment, all soft colors and understated decoration (Monaco liked interior design, Belarus had known for years by then), Monaco’s Russian perfect and her fingers quick and skilled as she dealt the cards. It was a pleasant evening, something that surprised Belarus. She had thought their friendship would fall apart if there wasn’t any paper to hold it together, if she couldn’t think about how to word things. Belarus knew she could be blunt, and despite herself, she cared what Monaco thought of her.

However, Monaco was patient, and smiled minuscule smiles when she wasn’t maintaining her poker face, and her bracelets jangled, glinting in the light of the setting sun. Belarus couldn’t help but smile back.

Still, the notes continued even as the world became more and more digital around them. Sometimes, Belarus had no idea how the folded pieces of paper got into her pockets or her bag or clipped to her hotel key, but she supposed a woman who was as good at poker as Monaco was, and as small as her, was bound to be good at stealth. It was flattering to know that she would go to such lengths, for no other reason than to let Belarus know she loved her lipstick or that she _also_ thought Romania’s hair looked weird or that she heard a really nice song the other day, Belarus should listen.

Meetings without Monaco became dull.

Lithuania asked her out again, bless his heart, and when she turned him down, he asked if it was because she was in love with someone else. The notes, you see. He always saw her smiling at these _notes_. It was none of his business, and she told him that, but…

Gold ink tucked away in her coat pocket.

 _I would love to come_  
_see the sights of Minsk_  
_with you! Let me know_  
_when, I’ll make time._  
_Love_

Belarus imagined Monaco in Minsk, bundled up against the winter weather, her hair spilling gold over a scarf, breath clouding up her glasses. She imagined showing the nation her home, listening to her half-joking offers of how its dark interior could be improved, her voice soft and melodious as always. They would go to the ballet, and Belarus could finally let Monaco hear her play the guitar, and let herself be talked into another round of poker that she’d lose and.

 _The weather is cold,_  
_so be sure to bring_  
_warm clothes when_  
_you come here._  
_x_

Monaco did bring warm clothes, but she was still cold, her Mediterranean genes catching up with her quickly. It seemed only natural, at that point, to pile blankets on both of them on the couch as they watched some stupid soap opera, and for Belarus to rake her fingers through Monaco’s hair, free of its braid for once, as Monaco rested her head on her shoulder.

Belarus tried to say something about what Lithuania had said, but wasn’t sure how to put it into words. She might be – she was quite sure that she _was_ – in love with Monaco, who had quietly become part of her life, purely because she wanted to.

A notebook, a blue ballpoint pen. Same as always.

_Can I tell you something?_

Loopy handwriting in return. Apparently, Monaco brought her fountain pen.

 _Of course. Anything._

_I look forward to your_  
_notes every time we_  
_attend a meeting._

_As do I._

_I looked forward to_  
_this weekend as well._  
_It’s good to see_  
_you in my home._

 _I feel the same. It_  
_means a lot to me_  
_that you invited me._

_Monaco?_

_Yes?_

Her hands hovered. Monaco was looking at the TV resolutely, not peeking at the notebook.

_I think I’m in love with you_

Belarus rushed the words. They came out messy, but she shoved the notebook at Monaco before she could change her mind, focusing on the TV as well. She felt Monaco shift next to her, could hear the soft scratch of the fountain pen on the paper, and then the notebook was pushed into her hands.

Gold ink.

 _I think that makes this_  
_our second date._  
_Love_

Running her fingers over the word Love, Belarus smudged the drying ink and ended up with a gold stain on her fingers. Monaco took them in her own small hands, lacing their fingers together.

 _I would like to have a third._  
_x_

Belarus still wonders what compelled Monaco to write that first note, why to her, but thinks maybe Monaco herself doesn’t even know the answer, and it’s not really all that important.

The notes have become sparse, but sometimes Belarus finds one tucked between her clothes neatly folded in a drawer in Monaco’s house, telling her how good she looks in a certain dress, or one wedged between her favorite CDs, saying she has a wonderful singing voice, or poking into her toe when she pulls her shoes on, with the message that Monaco misses her when she’s gone. All signed _Love_ , all written in gold ink.

Most of the time, they don’t need words any longer.


End file.
